


Hemiola

by ExpatGirl



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BDSM, Consensual Non-Consent, F/M, Femdom, Fluff and Smut, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Multi, Porn with Feelings, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:01:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29020128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExpatGirl/pseuds/ExpatGirl
Summary: “This is quite...a list.”“I take my birthday very seriously, Geralt.”“I can see that.” The witcher ran his thumb across the parchment. Heavy, off-white, with a watermark. The ink had been allowed to dry without blotting. A lot of thought had gone into its writing._____It's going to be a birthday to remember, as long as everyone stays in character.  And what's a little kidnapping between friends?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 23
Kudos: 86





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _Hemiola: three beats of equal value in the time normally occupied by two beats; three imperfect beats in place of two perfect ones; a perfect fifth._  
> 
> 
> **See chapter notes for additional content warnings/tags.**

“This is quite...a list.”

“I take my birthday very seriously, Geralt.” 

“I can see that.” The witcher ran his thumb across the parchment. Heavy, off-white, with a watermark. The ink had been allowed to dry without blotting. A lot of thought had gone into its writing.

His eyes widened at the last item. “Are any of these things, um, negotiable?”

“They’re all negotiable.” Jaskier crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m not a tyrant.” 

“Hm.”

“I’m not! But shy bairns get nowt, and I want considerably more than _nowt_.”  
  
“Are you sure you want _all_ of this though? It seems...”

“Oh, please,” Jaskier said, with a dismissive gesture. “You should have seen some of the celebrations that the Countess de Stael and I had, back in our heyday.” His eyes took on a faraway look that meant incoming poetry, and Geralt knew he needed to withdraw quickly. 

“Alright,” Geralt said. He sighed. “I’ll...ask Yennefer.”

Jaskier smiled, victory written across his face, and returned to tuning his lute.   
______

“She says yes.”

“I knew it!”

“Provided..."

Jaskier paused in his celebratory preening. His face was already growing hot, but Geralt’s tone was like an icy hand on the back of his neck. “Provided..."

“Provided we can make a few adjustments. And provided we get an extra day.”

“Three days?” Jaskier cleared his throat. “What’s...what’s the extra day for?” 

“You’ll see.”

“Oh. Um.”

“Take it or leave it, bard.”

“Take it. Definitely take it!” 

Geralt nodded. He gave Jaskier a slow and thoughtful look. Then, having seemingly come to a decision, he said, “You know the Climbing Vine Inn, before the Kaedwen Trail?” 

“They have a terrible ale selection but the patrons pay well.” 

“Pay you well, maybe.” 

Jaskier took a sip of his wine and poured Geralt another. They’d played Gwent for nearly two hours before he’d finally slammed his fist on the table and demanded to know Yennefer’s answer. “You were saying?”

“Head for it tomorrow morning. It should take you two days.” 

“Right. And?” He looked at Geralt over the rim of the goblet. 

“That will give you a day’s head start.” 

Jaskier choked on his wine, causing Geralt to slap him soundly on the back. “God!”

“That’s for fucking up my Gwent deck.” 

“Fair,” Jaskier said, wiping his eyes. “That’s fair.” 

Geralt drained his goblet in one long pull and set it on the table. “I’m going to turn in.”

“It’s only nine.”

“Long day ahead. Need to meditate.” He took his cloak from the back of the chair and walked toward the stairs. 

Jaskier swallowed. “Yes, I suppose...I should get ready, as well.” 

Geralt paused with one hand on the bannister and looked over his shoulder at him. His eyes caught the candlelight and gleamed like a wolf’s. “I suppose you should.” 

Jaskier sat for another half an hour, staring into the fire, gripping the arms of the chair so hard he was afraid they’d splinter. Then he rose, with a strange, controlled giddiness guiding his steps, and began his preparations.  
______

He had chosen his outfit carefully. Boots with a sturdy sole but a shapely heel, and pale blue attire that made him look (so the ladies said) younger than his age, and brought out the color of his eyes. He’d trimmed and plucked every stray hair he could reach, scrubbed himself with ground apricot kernels until he was shining and anointed himself with a variety of scented oils. He lined his eyes with a hint of kohl to make his lashes look darker. He’d taken great pains to make himself, every inch, as clean and enticing as it was possible for a human being to be. 

He packed light, and debated leaving the lute behind. But then, that would detract from the whole thing. And Geralt knew how important the instrument was; he’d be careful with it.

Jaskier set off that morning—two days before his birthday—at dawn. Geralt had taken the spare bed and was still asleep (or anyway, feigning sleep) when Jaskier departed.

He left a note, brief and cheerful:

> _There’s some leftover mutton for breakfast._   
>  _Remember to lock the door when you leave._   
>  _See you soon!_
> 
> _PS—Remember, the word is REPRISE._

He underlined the last with a bold stroke of the pen and left, whistling a jaunty tune.

More than one lady watched him over the top of her fan, and several men—a group of gamblers in brocade doublets, a shirtless workman with a barrel over his thick shoulder—eyed him up as well. 

He smiled his most charming smile at them and kept walking. 

Overall, the day was off to a marvelous start.  
_______  
  
Jaskier stopped at a small Inn of no repute near sunset. He played a few popular drinking songs to the half-asleep patrons and earned one ducat. Normally that kind of a haul would leave him in a sour mood, but at the moment, Melitele herself could come down and slap him in the face and his mood would remain sweet as honey. 

He prepared for bed as best he could with a ewer of water and a new bar of lemon soap. It was going to be difficult to sleep; his nerves seemed to get more tightly strung with every passing moment. 

He forced himself to be calm by staring at the picture of a morose looking sheep that was the only decorative touch in the entire room. When he’d had enough of that, he stripped and stood bare-chested by the mirror, to continue his makeshift bath. It was then he saw something—something large, something that perhaps had deep, fiery eyes—looming outside the window. He gasped and turned, the cloth still dripping in his hand, but there was nothing there. 

Eventually, he fell asleep and dreamed of howling wolves and dark wings.

_________

He set off early again. This time the kohl was a little heavier, his doublet a little tighter. He daubed his lips with a mixture of beeswax and almond oil to make them shine. He barely heard the whistles of one of the barmaids as he paid his bill, and declined breakfast, taking only an apple for the journey. 

Jaskier’s senses were on high alert as he came to the fork in the road. A fine cool mist had settled, and the air was still. Each faint sound, each snapping twig and distant bird call, made his hair stand on end, and he kept glancing over his shoulder. He felt like a great wave was going to crash over him at any moment. 

He stopped to eat his apple on a rock that jutted like a giant’s tooth from the gorse. The mist grew thicker, and he hugged his pack to his body. 

“Birthday’s off to a smashing start,” he muttered, looking at the apple. “Oh, well.”

He lifted it to his lips to take a bite. Suddenly the point of a blade pressed against his throat, making him jump and cry out. The apple fell and rolled away. 

“Lone traveler is just asking for trouble,” a low voice said, near his ear. “Especially so far between towns.”

Jaskier held still, barely daring to breathe, but his left hand sought the small bodkin in the pocket of his cloak. “I..ah, yes, I..good thing I’m not alone, though.”

“Mm hm.” Now his assailant’s breath was hot on the back of his neck. The point of the blade never waivered. “You’ve been alone all day. You were alone last night.” 

“You.” Jaskier swallowed. It was hard to keep from squirming in place. “It was you I saw at the window.” The man behind him made an affirmative noise. “Listen, I...don’t have much money, but please, you can have it. Just let me go on my way.” The bodkin rested tightly in his fist, and he moved to withdraw it as slowly as possible.

“Money I can get anywhere.” There was a pause, and the man coughed and cleared his throat, like there was something stuck in it. “I’m interested in other things.” 

“Other things? What other things? I don’t..."

Jaskier took his chance, leaning away from the blade and stabbing backwards, toward the sound of the voice. The bodkin whistled through the air, but before it struck anything, a strong, gloved hand grabbed hold of his wrist. Its grip was like a vice, and he dropped his weapon. 

“Shit,” he said, as the hand closed over his mouth. He craned his neck around to see who’d attacked him with such astonishing speed, but was met by a dark hood and a wall of black armor. 

“If that’s the way you want to do it.” The cloak came off, revealing a shock of grey-white hair and glittering amber eyes. Then the heavy weight of the cloak settled over him, plunging him into darkness and muffling his shout. He clawed at the fabric but couldn’t find any opening. 

It smelled of woodsmoke and bitter green herbs, and then, dimly, as he caught his breath, lilacs.   
  
Jaskier was hefted unceremoniously onto the back of a horse. He felt it shift under his weight and then hold still, unperturbed. Then a loop of rope was attached to his ankles and pulled tight. 

There were a few deafening moments of silence; or near-silence, except for the tremendous thunder of his heart. Then the horse made an impatient sound, and Jaskier heard:

“Treat for you, Roach.” 

_That bastard’s giving her my apple._ He lifted his head to tell him off, but that only earned him a smack. 

Jaskier’s weight shifted perilously as Geralt mounted Roach, but Geralt pressed him in place with one powerful hand. Jaskier allowed himself a groan and felt, rather than saw, Geralt’s answering laugh. 

_Melitele’s tits, I hope it’s not far_ , Jaskier thought, as he jostled along like a trussed deer. His hunger had retreated, but his discomfort was compounded by the friction against his groin. He tried moving his hips to alleviate the pressure, but that got him another smack, even more stinging than the first. He yelped.

“Be still.” 

In short order the darkness, the scent of the cloth, and the motion of the horse lulled him into a kind of stupor. He couldn't tell where they were headed, and his head began to swim with questions, sharp edges of anticipation biting at him. 

By the time they stopped he'd lost track of everything except this: he was caught, and he was in a lot of trouble. He was pulled from Roach’s back without preamble and hoisted over Geralt’s shoulder, who then removed the rope from Jaskier’s ankles, along with his boots.

“You won’t be needing those,” Geralt said, and even through the shroud of his cloak, Jaskier could hear the threat in it. 

He kicked out blindly, but Geralt clamped an arm around the back of his knees and carried him a short distance. He heard the creak of an opening door. A woman’s voice called out a greeting from nearby, and then the door closed with a firm thud. A lock clicked heavily into place close by his head and Jaskier knew he was well and truly trapped. His breath, which had grown thick and disorienting without access to fresh air, left him entirely. 

That didn’t mean he couldn’t make a scene, though. He was an expert scene-maker. Maybe he could buy some time, or alert a nearby neighbor. That is, if there were any nearby neighbors. He just had to take whatever chance he could.

The world tilted sharply and he landed with a grunt on what felt like a rug. Or anyway, something only marginally softer than the floor. He whined, and was rewarded with the toe of a boot on his stomach, though it didn’t apply any pressure. He hissed and blinked as the cloak was ripped away and midday sunlight streamed into his eyes. 

“Oh! How _very_ pretty,” the woman—Yennefer, though she was dressed in an unfamiliar fashion, almost plain, in supple black leather trousers and a white muslin shirt. “You always bring me the nicest things.” 

Behind him, Jaskier heard the curtains pull closed, and the room fell dim. He pushed himself into a sitting position, and then onto his knees. He stared up at her, palms up, supplicant. “My lady, please...help me. I don’t know who your—your man thinks I am, but I assure you, I’m just—”

Yennefer’s eyes flicked up to Geralt, who grabbed Jaskier by the hair and pulled him to his feet. Geralt’s hand gentled in response to the pained _ah_ sound, but didn’t let go. Jaskier’s eyes watered.

She leaned in close and raised his chin with the tip of one elegant finger. “You’re just a day’s ride from anywhere, in the middle of ghoul-infested woods.” She wiped away one of his tears with her thumb. “Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of you. As long as you’re polite.”

“He tried to stab me,” Geralt said gruffly. 

Her face turned stony and Jaskier felt panic flare up.

“I was attacked!” 

“Rude,” Yennefer said, crossing her arms. “And not at all trustworthy.” She looked behind him, to Geralt, and nodded her head once, short and sharp. 

“What? No, no, I’m completely trustworthy, I sw..."

Jaskier nearly lost his footing, and his head fell forward as Geralt changed his hold. The rope from earlier dragged against the skin of his wrists and he realized with growing terror what was about to happen.

He flexed his wrists hard against Geralt's grasp and lurched forward, trying to unbalance him. For a moment it seemed like it might work. He heard Geralt swear as he faltered, and so he twisted harder.

A flash of blue white sparks inches from his face drew him up short. Yennefer, despite being quite a bit shorter than him, seemed to tower over him and fill up the whole of his vision.

"You will hold still." 

A ball of unearthly fire rested in her bare palm. Several of the sparks grazed his skin and made him shiver and shout in surprise. Jaskier swallowed thickly around the mixture of fear and—he couldn’t help it—desire that had taken root where his tongue used to be.

"Unless," she continued, watching him with interest, "you want a _reprise_."

He held his breath, not daring to take his eyes from hers. Finally he shook his head. His shoulders slumped and he stared at the floor, the very picture of defeat. “No,” he whispered, “please, no.”   
  
“That’s what I thought.” 

Her smile was gentle for an instant, and then turned cold. The magic dissipated from her hands with a scent of ozone, and she bent down to see his face. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quality time with the Lady of the House.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See chapter end notes for content warnings.

Yennefer stared at him for what seemed like half an age, and he felt trapped in the talons of some beautiful, terrible bird. She caressed his cheek with cool fingers that contained no traces of lingering fire. While he stared at her, stupefied, she undid the buttons of his doublet. He didn’t even realize until he felt it slip from his shoulders and fall to the floor. 

She gestured at his undershirt. It was one of the finest he owned, literally, its silk as fine as cobwebs. It would take very little to rip it, and he grimaced. But instead she told him to take it off himself, which he did, blushing and stuttering, and holding it in front of himself like it could protect him. She shook her head, almost pitying, and took it from his hands. He made a small noise and gripped his own biceps to try and stay covered, feeling at once too hot and too cold.

“Geralt.” 

Geralt grabbed him and made short work of the knots, using some elaborate formation that pulled his shoulders back and pressed the full length of his forearms together. He plucked hopelessly, looking for a knot to work on or a loose end to pull, but there was nothing. The rope itself was surprisingly smooth against his skin, but there was no give in it, no matter which way he moved. 

Geralt laughed at that—barely a huff of air, but conveying _you absolute fool_ very clearly. 

“I’m going,” he said.

“You’re _going_?” Jaskier asked. “W—”

“I’ll be back when my business is done,” he said to Yennefer, as though Jaskier hadn’t even spoken. He stepped to Yennefer and kissed her hard, then, incongruously, pressed his forehead tenderly to hers for a few seconds. She tucked a stray bit of hair behind his ear. 

But when he turned back to Jaskier, his scowl was firmly in place, and Jaskier took a half step backward on instinct. “You.” He took Jaskier by the throat, not squeezing, but a hair's breadth away from it. “If you try to escape, I’ll hunt you down and make you regret it.” 

Jaskier nodded, or tried to, and then gasped when Geralt leaned in close and pulled his neck to the side to bite him. His teeth sunk in very nearly to the blood, and Jaskier knew the mark would linger for days. 

Geralt left without another word, locking the door behind him. 

Jaskier stood, quaking, in the middle of the room, trying to get his bearings. It was a surprisingly non-descript cabin. The rug he’d recently been acquainted with was, in fact, a bearskin, in front of a small hearth filled with slow fire. A plain wooden table with—he almost laughed—an earthenware vase filled with wildflowers and a bowl of fruit. Beyond the doorway was another room he couldn’t see, shrouded by darkness. Something prickled on the back of his neck as he looked at it.

“You must be hungry,” Yennefer said with a kind of flinty cheer that made him recoil. She took an apple from the bowl and then withdrew a small but very sharp-looking knife from the scabbard strapped to her thigh. She smiled at him and began cutting the apple with terrifying precision. 

“No, I...I’m. I’m quite alright. Thank you.” 

“Mm.” She pierced one of the slices with the knife and walked over to him, holding it up to his mouth. “You must be hungry.” 

“I’m...starving,” he whispered, trying to keep his voice steady. He ate the apple slice carefully, mindful of cutting his tongue to ribbons, and she watched with a low gleam in her eye as she fed him another and another, until they were all gone. He had to admit, the sweet-tart taste of it was heavenly. “Thank you.”

She dabbed at his lip. In spite of himself, his dick gave a twitch of interest. 

“Oh,” she said, looking down. “No. I’m afraid not.” 

“Sorry,” he stammered. “Sorry, that doesn’t usually…”

Yennefer laughed abruptly, her eyes dancing with malicious glee. “Actually, you know? Yes. I think so.”

“You...you what? No, that’s not necessary, really.” He had no idea what 'it' might be, but he did know he wanted to avoid it.

“I’m afraid it is. I don’t want you getting unruly while I’m all alone here.”

“Unruly? I'm tied up within an inch of my life."

She shrugged. "Men are capricious things." She hooked her fingers in his waistband and dragged him forward, until he was stumbling along behind her through the kitchen and...

And into the darkened back room. He balked in the doorway, casting around for something to distract her. But for once his quick wit seemed to be absent. She turned wordlessly and struck him across the face, leaving a stinging blush across one cheek.

Now apparently piqued, Yennefer pulled him roughly into the room and, with a gesture Jaskier didn't see, illuminated the candles on the mantle. Before he could look around, she stopped him and shoved him harshly. He toppled backwards with a shout and landed on a feather bed.

"What...what are you planning to…"

"Shut up or I'll shut you up."

He had no doubt that she meant it. He tried to breathe deeply and keep himself still and calm. 

Her back was turned, and he couldn't see what she was doing, but there was a worrying amount of clanking and scraping. When she returned to him, she had something clutched obscurely in her hand, which she set near his hip. 

He tried to raise his head to see, but she slapped him again, across the other cheek this time. He felt tears welling up, but blinked them back.

He tried to regain his composure as she pulled off his stockings and breeches with surprisingly strong hands. 

"That's enough, please," he said hoarsely. "I swear I won't do anything. I'll be as quiet as you want, just...please."

She looked at him over the expanse of his body and shook her head. "You can't even be quiet for five minutes. I'd take your tongue, but you'll need it." 

With that, she took hold of his small clothes. They, too, had been chosen with great care, but were removed without any. 

He held his breath, wishing desperately that he could cover himself, or at least turn over, but the positioning of his arms made it impossible. He bit his lip and stared at the ceiling, unblinking, until his eyes burned and his vision blurred.

And then he flinched as something _very_ cold seemed to grab him by the balls. “Fuck!”

“No.”

“Ah, what...what is _that thing_?” He said it with such feeling he almost convinced himself he didn’t actually know. _Valdo Marx could never._

Yennefer looked up at him and sighed, disappointment written all over her face. Wordlessly, she stood straight and undid the black sash around her waist, which whispered and then snapped as it came free of the loops. She held him up by the back of the head and pushed the silk between his teeth, knotting it tightly. The whole thing had taken less than five seconds.

She curled her lip. It made her look almost monstrous in the deep shadow of the room. She raised her hand again as if to slap him. “Do you want a reprise?”

Jaskier shook his head, eyes wide. The sash smelled faintly of gooseberries and lilacs. He had to admit, he was beginning to understand why Geralt found it so intoxicating. 

“Then you’d better not move again.” 

He tried to hold still, though everything in him was screaming _get up, get up and run_ . He reacquainted himself with the beams in the ceiling, looking for patterns in the grain of the wood that might give him some sign of his fate. That meant that when her hands trailed up his thighs, the sensation struck him like one of her spells. He breathed through his nose, trying to get enough air. And then, suddenly, she was between his legs, gripping his cock just a hair too tight. Then something hard slipped around him and closed with a definitive _click_.

He let out a startled noise and jolted upright, straining with the effort, in time to see Yennefer slipping a small key on a delicate chain around her neck. He tried to ask _what did you do to me_ but it came out garbled. Jaskier squinted, taking in the gleam of polished metal—gold, fuck, it was actually _gold_ , it must have cost a fortune—between his thighs. A cage. A very small, very intricate, very indestructible-looking cage. 

“Nice, isn’t it?” Yennefer asked, and it was impossible to tell if it was actually her or the version of her that had dragged him in here. “I ordered it from a...hm, let’s say niche...craftswoman. Very special.” 

“Special how?” Jaskier asked, but what came out was _Hhnnnmm_? 

“Now,” Yennefer continued, as though he’d not made a sound, “I fear I’ve messed up your rather immaculate makeup. Apologies. Let me fix that.” 

She settled next to his head and used a soft cloth to wipe away the traces of knol that had bled down to his cheeks. She was scrupulously gentle, and yet he found himself shaking a little as she did it. 

“Mm, now,” She produced a small, pointed brush and a pot of kohl from somewhere he couldn’t see. “Close your eyes.”

Jaskier swallowed restlessly but did as he was told. For a moment nothing happened, and then she was on top of him, straddling him, leaning over him until he could feel her breath on his overheated face. The brush fluttered delicately against his eyelids, first the top, then the bottom, as she reapplied what had been cried away. She blew gently to remove the loose powder, and then began on his left eye. 

He found himself starting to float, or to sink, he wasn’t sure. Either way, gravity seemed to be struggling with itself. The weight of her body on top of him, her scent, the way her hair brushed across his skin, the hypnotic movement of the brush—all of them combined to make him feel weightless and heavy at the same time. He felt as though he could lay perfectly still for hours, days, the rest of his life.

It also, he realized belatedly, was having the opposite effect on his dick. He felt it give a small twitch, then another, and then little points of discomfort bloomed across the surface of his skin. 

Yennefer seemed not to notice. She smiled down at him, the way a child might smile down at a doll it was about to burn with a magnifying glass. “Lovely. Now, let’s see to that mouth.” 

She took out another small pot; Jaskier recognized it as his own. The smell of beeswax and almond oil filled his nose as she carefully traced his lips around the gag.

He twitched again and the sharp little pains returned, clearer now. He made a choked sound. 

Yennefer raised one carefully filled eyebrow. "Hm? Oh, I see you've discovered what makes it special."

He looked at her uncomprehendingly, and she patted his face.

"Spikes. I mean, small ones." She held up a thumb and index finger, pinched close together. "Tiny. You won't even feel them as long as nothing...arises." She ran her fingers through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp and making a wave of goosebumps appear. He practically melted into the bed. "You're so very pretty, I almost hope you don't feel a thing." 

Yennefer slithered off of him and shook out her hair. 

"But."

 _But?_ He thought, knowing she might hear it. Physically, he whimpered. 

"But you did try to stab...my _man_ , as you called him." She smiled at some private joke. "And lines must be enforced or else they don't exist."

Her words settled on him like a suffocating weight as Yennefer retrieved something else from the mantle. It looked like an innocent bundle of herbs and flowers, something a hedge witch might use to cleanse her home.

She held a candle to it and it sent up a ribbon of storm colored smoke. Smiling, she walked over to him again, a temple maiden about to make an offering. Or set light to a pyre.

She pulled the gag free from his mouth. Instinctively he held his breath and she shook her head as though he was a particularly dull pupil. Maybe he was. 

Yennefer turned her head and inhaled a plume of smoke. Then, holding it in her mouth, she took hold of Jaskier's face and kissed him, sliding her tongue inside until his jaw went slack and his eyelids fluttered closed. 

Pungent herbs hit his nose and throat as she exhaled the rest of the smoke. He coughed slightly but his mind still swirled with the taste of her kiss, sweet beneath the bitter. 

Then, all at once, pain. He yelped and sat up, staring in mounting horror at the glittering metal around his cock. The very thing he seemed to have lost control of entirely, right when he most needed control of it. 

"What?" he managed, before the next words turned into a sob. 

"One of my specialties." She looked smug, and it was maddeningly attractive. Her pert little mouth, the gleam in her eye.

Jaskier sobbed again as he somehow grew even harder. He held back his tears, but barely.

"Poor thing," Yennefer said, equal parts honey and venom. "Don't worry, it'll stop the instant I say the word."

“What word?”

She breathed in, about to speak, and then grinned at him as she realized his ploy. “You sly bastard. It’s a secret. You’ll know it when I say it.” 

"Say..." He groaned, his thighs twitching hectically. "Say it. Say it, please." He was two breaths away from crying. 

“See? _Now_ you’re polite.” 

One breath away from crying. He made a strangled noise and fell back onto the bed.

“That can’t be comfortable. Sit up.”

Jaskier tried, but his limbs didn’t want to cooperate, and he ended up merely writhing on the bedspread, causing the heavy brocade fabric to bunch. 

He expected another slap, but instead she took pity on him, helping him sit upright. Yennefer’s gentleness and her cruelty were doled out with an unshakable logic—but Jaskier couldn't parse what the logic was. Which was probably the point.

Jaskier felt the knots loosen from his arms and the rope began to uncoil, a snake that had eaten its fill. He moaned as they fell away and he moved his arms; already there were pins and needles, and it would only increase as the blood returned. It did, however, have the unexpected benefit of distracting him momentarily from the pain between his thighs. 

Yennefer surprised him yet again by massaging the overtaxed muscles in his shoulders and upper arms. Her hands were sure and almost achingly kind. It was that, somehow, that freed his tears, and they fell hot and shameless down his face.

"Why are you doing this?" he asked, voice breaking. He wasn't sure which part of _this_ he meant. 

Yennefer raised an eyebrow and grabbed him by the jaw, forcing him to meet her violet eyes. "Because it's what you deserve." 

A fresh wave of agony hit him, and yet, somehow, he felt the first beads of precome welling up. He threw his head back and keened. 

She laughed, sounding delighted, and pushed him. "Lay down. Flat on your back." 

His first instinct was to ask why, but he knew it was a mistake, liable to earn him some other obscure torture. Instead he pushed himself back with shaking arms and did as he was told.

Yennefer looked pleased, and let her gaze wander over him with predatory intent. Then she undid the laces of her boots and trousers, unhurried and methodical. The scabbard clattered to the floor as she unbuckled it, and the vambraces followed. Soon she wore nothing but the thin white silk shirt and—it was difficult to see—some kind of undergarment of fine black lace. 

She crawled into bed with him, and then her graceful legs were around him, cool on his overheated skin. 

She stroked her palm down his chest, lightly pinching each nipple. This set of actions did nothing at all to relieve the torment he was currently experiencing. As though she read his thoughts (which, he realized, she may well have done), she trailed her fingernails along the metal of the cage. 

"You want this off?"

Jaskier nodded, frantic. The pain had created a kind of roaring in his head, and everything—all other noise, light, the idea of the outside world itself—was starting to fade away.

"Keep your hands to yourself, and I'll consider it."

He made a high pitched noise of confusion, and she kissed him again, hot and demanding, until he couldn’t breathe. His hands grasped at the bedspread, desperate to hold _something_ , since he couldn't reach up and hold her by the waist. 

"Mm." She pulled back, and her eyes were hazy. Then they cleared and she looked deep, deep into his face. “I think you’re ready.”

Jaskier inhaled sharply but resisted the urge to ask more questions. It was easy once you had no choice. He just watched her through a kind of delirious scrim, the world made indistinct and lustrous from tears and helplessness and, somewhere underneath, an untempered craving for more of both. 

Yennefer bit her lip and then rose up on her knees. Then, in a moment that Jaskier wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t hallucinate, she moved up until she was level with his mouth. She pulled the lace aside. He privately cursed the darkness of the room for interrupting his view, but he saw enough: a flash of black hair, then deep and tender pink, and his brain whited out entirely.

Jaskier dimly felt her hands in his hair, holding his head where she wanted it, and she may have said something, but he was too overwhelmed by the heat and scent and nearness of her to hear it.

A pointed tug on his scalp brought him back a fraction. "Pay attention. I want you awake for every second of this."

He nodded, or thought he did, and met her eyes. Then, he put his mouth to work. The first taste always gave him a jolt, the keenness and the depth of it hitting at once; it made his mouth water. He’d been in this position—or positions very like it—enough to know that there were hundreds of subtle differences, and each one a pleasure, but it was the first taste he dreamed about most. 

She was maddeningly quiet at first, and that made him forget the fear and shame he was supposed to feel, made him almost forget the pain that still blazed in his body; he wanted to wrest back some control, to exercise some kind of will. So he worked harder. She might have her spells and Geralt his swords, but he knew the power that rested on the tip of the tongue.

Finally a sound rose from her throat, followed soon by another. They soon grew louder, and hoarser, and then were interspersed with curses through gritted teeth. When he felt her thighs begin to quiver, he concentrated his efforts on keeping up an unyielding rhythm and unwavering pressure. He was growing dizzy and it was only years of practice that made it possible. 

Soon Yennefer’s hips shuddered, and then he felt her spasm as she came. She gasped and leaned forward, gripping the headboard, and let her head hang. Her eyes shone and her mouth was red. Her hair had come loose and hung wildly around her shoulders. Even though her body was covered, the sight sent a thrill through Jaskier. 

There was a moment of fragile quiet as they caught their breaths, and then she laughed. Which was not at all the response he’d expected.

“Oh, that was _good_ ,” she said, between laughs. “That was good. But don’t think I don’t know what you were trying to do, you fool.” She’d caught her breath at last, and when she looked down at him again, her eyes were like knives, balanced against his throat. “You’re in here with _me_ , not the other way around.” 

She withdrew from him as quickly as she came and it was then he noticed the cramping in his hands from pulling so tightly at the bedspread. He unclenched his fingers slowly. 

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Please. I’m really very sorry, I promise I...I just got carried away. I wasn’t trying to—” He bit his swollen lower lip. “I give up, I swear. You can do anything you want. Just please, please take this off?” He’d started crying again halfway through begging and this time he couldn’t make himself stop.

She looked at him appraisingly, the way a cook might regard a lamb at market. "Of course I can do anything I want."

"Please?"

"Stand up," she said, and he did, shaking in every limb. "Against the post," she said, and he blinked a few times but pressed himself back against the beam in the center of the room. Then she took up the rope again and pulled his arms back until his hands met. She wasn't as elaborate as Geralt, but the knots did the job.

With no prelude, she slipped her hand between his legs, stroked his inner thighs for a moment, which caused him to flinch and squirm, and then moved upward. He tried to push his legs together, but she forced them apart. Her grip around his balls was harsh and her face was cold and unfeeling.

Jaskier swallowed a scream and looked towards the heavens. 

"That won't help you." 

"I know," he whispered.

He wasn't sure exactly what she was doing with her hand, but it made a series of shivers run up his spine. He desperately wanted to look, and yet he was afraid of what he'd see if he did. The cage was relentless around him, but just when he thought he’d accepted it, she moved her fingers against some sensitive spot that felt mind-endingly good, and it brought the pain into harsh relief. 

Jaskier wasn’t sure how much more he’d be able to bear, and yet he knew he would have to bear everything she gave him. It was that thought that caused the muscles in his back to tighten as his spine bowed. A sense of pressure built between his hips, and the rest of his body seemed to fade away. And then—there was no stopping it—he came, a wave of biting pleasure that knocked the breath from him, and for an instant he was sure he was going to die. 

There was a buzzing sound in his brain, a ringing like the fading tones of a struck bell. He sagged backward against the beam, feeling his heart rocking his entire body with its rhythm. 

But Yennefer hadn’t taken the charm off, and she hadn’t taken away her hand, merely stilled it for a moment. When she touched him again, he felt the whole weight of her attention compress and focus on his cock. He, naturally, cried out. 

"I could keep going," Yennefer said, her voice soft. "Until you black out. Until you forget your own name, and then forget everything in the world except me, and what I'm doing to you."

"Please. _You..._ "

"Hm? I?"

"You..." He took a ragged breath. The pain reached a crescendo. "You can. You can do anything you want, and there's— _fuck—_ nothing I can do about it."

This seemed to please her, for she leaned in and kissed him with unexpected tenderness and stopped her ministrations. 

“That’s right.”

Yennefer drew the key on its chain from around her neck. Jaskier’s heart skipped several beats as the metal caught the light. She held it in her palm for what felt like an eternity. 

“Closed,” she said, drawing the fingertips of her other hand down his forehead. 

Jaskier closed his eyes.

“Good.” 

He’d risen on the tips of his toes without meaning to, and made himself stand as strongly as he could. At last there was another _click_ , and then, to his mind, much later, he felt the metal slipping free. He winced as the spikes gave him one last goodbye kiss.

“There,” Yennefer’s voice said, close to his ear. “What do you say?”

His eyes were still closed. “Thank you,” he managed, sagging with relief.

“You’re an absolute mess,” she said, running her fingers along the come that had smeared along the head of his cock. His toes curled at the sensation. “I can’t have you in bed with me like this, ruining the sheets, now can I?”

 _Is she going to make me sleep on the floor?_ Not ideal, but not enough for him to call everything to a halt. Maybe it was a test. Jaskier desperately wanted to open his eyes, but he hadn’t been told to do so. “No.” 

He heard her move behind him, and then a minute or so later his hands were free. He staggered a little as he tried to stand, and her hand rested on his chest. He stayed where he was, eyes closed, against the post. The insides of his thighs were growing sticky, and he was still impossibly, cruelly hard.

“There’s a tub in the corner of the room. Go stand in it.” 

He took a stumbling step forward.

“Open your eyes first, for gods’ sake.” 

Jaskier laughed as he did, though, he admitted, it didn’t sound particularly sane. For his outburst, Yennefer struck him square on the ass. He made his way, chastened, to the small copper tub in the far corner. There was a linen screen for privacy, but Jaskier knew he wouldn’t be allowed to use it. He climbed in awkwardly and stood in some confusion; it only went to the tops of his shins, and he’d have to pull his knees to his chest if he wanted to sit in it. 

But she hadn’t told him to sit, she’d told him to stand. So he grabbed his own wrists behind his back, and stood.

Yennefer lit more candles and stretched out her hand toward the fireplace, causing the reddish embers to spring up with new flame. It was then he noticed the pair of earthenware jugs resting in the coals. Soon they gave off fragrant steam, something bright to the nose and citrusy. 

She donned a pair of heavy gloves and brought them over beside the tub. “Take up that cloth,” she said, pointing to the lip of the tub, and so he did, feeling thoroughly confused. 

Satisfied, she sat down cross-legged at the foot of the bed and watched him. For some reason, her frank, unvarnished regard made him feel more vulnerable than any of the more elaborate things she’d done. 

“There is enough water in those to fill up the tub,” she said, rolling a kink in her neck. “Wash up. Be done before the tub is full, or I put the cage back on.” She snapped her fingers, causing the first jug to rise from the ground. “And,” she said, with a smirk that glinted like a blade’s edge, “be very _thorough_.” 

Jaskier gulped, and then gave a startled yelp as the first of the water fell onto his head, first a smattering of drops, and then a steady stream. He sighed as the heat and sweet scent loosened his muscles, and he very nearly forgot the task at hand. By the time he remembered and started applying the cloth, the water was nearly to his ankles. 

The upper half was easy enough, hair, neck, chest—he even allowed himself to throw his head back to expose his throat and collarbones. Once he got to his hips, where the water splashed and ran in rivulets, things became a little more delicate. It wasn't that he’d never done this sort of thing before, just not under these circumstances, and not with quite so intimidating an audience. 

He didn't have time to worry about it, however, because the tub was filling rapidly and the first jug had just run empty. The second took its place.

 _Very thorough_ Yennefer had said. 

He was very thorough.

"I bet that's sensitive," she observed, watching him wince.

"Extremely."

It was a close call, in the end. The last of the water, now tepid, shivered down the back of his neck as he dropped the muslin. He looked up through his matted lashes at her, to see what her judgement would be.

Yennefer, for her part, seemed disappointed, rolling her eyes as she stood. He was trembling as she approached, though he couldn't say if it was fear or cold. 

"Very well. Out." 

She let him hold her arm for balance as he stepped out. Then handed him a length of linen. "Dry yourself by the fire and sit."

The warmth of the fire soon made him drowsy, and he fought to keep his eyes open as it occurred to him how very tired he was. Yennefer was doing something behind his back, but he kept his gaze fixed on the flames.

 _Fuck,_ he couldn't fall asleep now, it was only...well truth be told, he had no idea what time it was. No matter, he was going to stay awake until the bitter end. 

But the fire was so nice, and he was _so_ tired...

 _No, no, no_. Stay awake. There was no telling what she'd do if she found him asleep and unguarded. Something arcane and horrible, probably. Or, he'd seen her pull fire from thin air to light candles, dark magic, maybe she'd use that power on him. His eyes turned to the iron poker. He imaged with garish detail the white hot tip, the struggle, the begging, the hand over his mouth, searing pain on his skin.

"Wake up." 

Jaskier jolted as yet more water hit his face. He scrambled to his feet and looked around. Yennefer was staring at him with narrowed eyes. In the unsteady firelight they looked almost black. 

"I'm sorry," Jaskier gasped, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Please don't..."

She rolled her eyes. "Shut up."

He shut up.

Then she said, "Crosstrees" and stepped in close.

"Cross—" He flinched as her hand raised and fell quiet.

"Hm," mused Yennefer. "That must have been quite the dream you were having. The charm's off, and yet…" She looked down and raised an eyebrow. 

Jaskier blushed furiously, and for once in his life thanked all the gods he'd been ordered to stay quiet. 

She turned and moved toward the front room. When he didn't immediately follow, she snapped her fingers and told him, in the same kind of voice one might use for a dog, to come. 

Jaskier clutched the linen around him and, still blushing, followed. 

She'd laid out a meal while he'd slept: some kind of small roast bird with vegetables stewed in white wine. His mouth watered with the sudden resurgence of his hunger. He nearly wept at the sight and lunged towards the table eagerly.

Crackling sparks pulled him up short. Yennefer stretched out her hand, filling the room with harsh white light. Her face seemed carved from marble, but her eyes flashed, blazing and alive.

"You have not earned a place at my table," she said, extinguishing the spell and plunging him into momentary blindness as his eyes adjusted. 

Jaskier bowed low, a panicked move that he'd learned at many courts, and said nothing. 

"Your place is there." She pointed imperiously toward the bearskin rug where Geralt had dropped him. On a dented tin plate there was a thigh from the bird on the table, bread and butter, and dark red berries. Next to it was a plain tin cup of water. 

"I—" He blinked.

"Eat it now or I'll throw it out for the foxes, and you'll have nothing. That's what I thought."

It was the most delicious meal of his life. He tried to maintain a modicum of dignity as he ate, but all his baser appetites were awake and howling. 

Yennefer ate her meal with much more restraint, using the knife and fork in that peculiar dainty way of hers. As Jaskier swallowed the last of the berries, she was still taking small, neat bites. 

Unsatisfied, he cracked open the thigh bone and began sucking out the marrow like a wild animal. It had, he realized as he wiped his mouth and hands on the linen, taken her almost no time at all to break him.

The thought made him thirsty, and he drank down the entire cup of water as though he'd never get another. 

Yennefer clapped her hands abruptly. "Enough. Clear these away and then return to your place. Leave the towel."

Jaskier was still hungry. There were still a few slices of bread on the table. Yennefer again had her back to him. He reached out, and then was seized by the memory of his dream. It had been so real, Geralt's hand merciless across his mouth, Yennefer's cheekbones illuminated by the glare of the fire, that it might have been a prophecy. 

It was a test. He set the bread back down and dutifully gathered up the plates. Geralt's teeth marks throbbed on his neck; the phantom brand throbbed near his heart. 

She hadn't told him to wait on his knees, but he did it anyway, head bent.

He felt rather than saw her approach. She gripped his hair in her fist and pulled his head back. 

"I want you to understand something,” she said. “You have a long, long day ahead of you tomorrow." 

He nodded, feeling his mouth go dry. 

"He's coming back in the morning. You had better pray he got what he set out for. If he has, he may go easy on you. If not..." She let the thought hang in the air.

Jaskier let out a choked little sob and closed his eyes. 

"I'm going to give you a chance to sleep. It's the only one you'll get."

"Thank you."

She let go of him, pushing his head away from her, and walked into the back room.

Jaskier got unsteadily to his feet and followed. By the time he arrived, she'd already shed the remainder of her clothing and stood, audaciously naked, next to the unmade bed. She had the black silk sash in her hands.

She inclined her head in a wordless command, and he came to her with his heart so far in his throat he practically tasted blood.

"Down."

When she'd secured his wrists to the headboard, she set about readying herself for bed. Jaskier was no stranger to a woman's evening toilette, some more frantic than others, but the ritual took on a new acuteness now as he lay stretched out and naked and unable to see the lady in question.

At last Yennefer finished and slid in next to him. The cool touch of her skin came as a shock, and she smirked. He'd seen her without makeup before, but it was always strange; she seemed younger somehow. The crookedness of her brows was surprisingly disarming. 

The candles extinguished with a wave of her hand. The only light was from the banked fire in the grate. 

A long time passed in silence as Jaskier worked to find a comfortable position. She'd been kind; there was enough give that he could move his arms. Though not enough, he noticed, for him to reach _her_.

Eventually he grew full of sleep. Yennefer's breathing was even, but he could tell she was still awake. Listening to him, no doubt. 

He was just about to drift off when a question that had troubled him floated to the surface of his thoughts.

"Yennefer?" It was the first time he'd said her name all day.

A pause. "Do you want to stop?"

"You can read minds, why do you keep asking me?"

"Because it's important," she said, in a way that brooked no argument.

"No, I don't want to stop. I...I want to keep doing this for days."

"Good. But that's not why you, the _world famous_ _performer_ , broke character.” She rolled over to face him. “What is it?"

Jaskier bit the inside of his cheek. "At the start, with the, hm, undressing. Geralt was supposed to…um." 

"Axii?"

He finally looked at her. Her left eye was a gleaming crescent, her right, completely dark. 

"Yes. I wanted him to use it. Why didn't he?"

"He tried, Jaskier. But he couldn't make himself do it."

"He felt _guilty?_ " 

"Of course he felt _guilty_. We both know Geralt has enough self loathing to block out the sun."

"True enough." He frowned into the dark. "But then, tomorrow, he won't want to…" 

"He wants to make you happy. Just be patient with him, and...mind what you say."

"Right." He nodded. "Right." 

Yennefer reached out and stroked his face in gentle reassurance. Then her hand trailed lower.

"Now," she said, and the change in her voice was subtle but undeniable, "for waking me up..."

She ran her nails softly down his stomach, and then more firmly along his inner thigh until his breath caught. By the time she took him in her fist, he was hard, and the memory of their talk felt like a dream.

She left him aching and unfinished, the sheets dragging with agonizing promise along his cock. He cried silent tears and listened to her sleep until he finally joined her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content in this chapter: 
> 
> cock cage  
> cbt  
> slapping  
> face sitting/"forced" oral  
> mentions of branding


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long, long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot it's actually 4 chapters and not 3. Apologies! The final chapter will still post on Wednesday.
> 
> See chapter end notes for content.

In his dream, the brand had been replaced by a knife. It was hardly surprising, really, but it did nothing at all to soothe his libido. Jaskier woke writhing and panting as the vision of Geralt's bared teeth dissolved into daylight.

But the panting didn't subside. For a few minutes he thought he was still in a dream, but when he opened his eyes, he was very firmly in the reality he'd been in the day before.

And yet...there was a slow throb between his legs, a sense of pressure and heat that seemed to curl its secret way up his spine like oil up a wick. 

He jolted as the pressure gave way to serrated pleasure, and looked down in murky confusion. 

There was Yennefer's dark head, bent in concentration. She had settled herself between his thighs while he slept and now was working her agile little fingers inside of him. He had no idea how long she'd been at it, or how far she'd spread him open, though from this perspective it felt as though she was trying to fit her entire fist. 

She felt him shudder. "Good morning," she said, with an executioner's amiability. "I hope you're ready for a long day."

He felt fear seethe under his skin, mingling with the physical pleasure. He groaned, and wasn't sure which one he was voicing. 

"Please," he gasped. "Let—ah!" He groaned again as she twisted her wrist and made him see stars.

"I'll help you as much as I can," she said, still bitingly cheerful. "But I'm afraid it's going to be rather rough going for you if you don't relax."

"I. I'm begging you. Please let me go. I'll never tell anyone, I swear."

"Let you _go_? We've barely started!" She slapped the sensitive skin of his flank with her left hand as he tried to move away from her. "Besides, you know I can do anything I want to you." 

She withdrew the fingers of her right hand with a wet sound, making him whimper. "And what I want," she whispered, leaning forward conspiratorially, "is to see what he does to you."

He started begging in earnest then, though he lost track of what he was saying as soon as she slipped something solid and heavy inside of him.

"Here," she said, placing an apple slice on his tongue with her left hand, and then another and another. After he'd duly eaten them, he began to move his hips in a desperate attempt to rid himself of whatever instrument of torture she'd left in him. Every move sent a small shock of unalloyed pleasure through him that hovered on the brink of pain.

Yennefer seemed to grow tired of the noise, and rolling her eyes, shoved one of her black gloves between his teeth. 

"Those big doe eyes," Yennefer murmured, looking down at him. "That's good. He'll like that." She stretched languidly. "Mm, I'm afraid I have work to do. And I very much need a bath. So, you just stretch out and wait." 

He heard the bedroom door shut, and then the cabin was silent. A sliver of pale morning sun fell across the bed. Jaskier turned his head but the curtain was still mostly closed, and he had no idea where he was. Still, the window might not be locked, and even if it was, it wouldn’t be the first window he broke to escape a bedroom. 

_Ghouls_. There were ghouls in the forest, she’d said. Though surely they were less likely to attack in broad daylight, right? He couldn’t remember at the moment what the bestiaries said, but he was mostly certain he had a few hours.

Then there was the question of his nudity. He didn't particularly enjoy the thought of exposing his most vulnerable assets to the outdoors, but it was better than the alternative. 

The alternative, which was...

He closed his eyes, but all he could see was a wall of dark armour, rough hands, sharp teeth. He shivered and tried to steel his nerves. 

Jaskier cast around for some means of escape. In the end, his only option was to try and undo his bonds. At some point she'd changed the position of his arms, probably to keep the blood flowing, but he couldn't reach the knots. 

He'd have to try and tear through the fabric. The wood of the headboard seemed smooth, but there was a faint grain to it that meant he could use friction to fray the weave.

He set to work, moving his shoulders awkwardly and trying his best to ignore the pressure building in the pit of his stomach. By the time he heard the threads start to snap, he was covered in a fine sheen of sweat. 

He was so focused on getting free that he didn't hear the front door swing open, and didn't hear it close again. The jubilant tearing sound of the sash filled his ears so that he didn't hear the witcher's careful tread, either. And then he was so intent on ripping the gag free from his mouth that he didn't see Geralt draw closer.

In fact, it wasn't until Jaskier felt a great shadow fall across him, blotting out the weak light of the room, that he noticed Geralt at all. 

"Wh—" 

His exclamation died under the pressure of Geralt's hand. Jaskier looked up at the witcher's face. In the half light it was almost inhuman, poised on the bleeding edge between beautiful and monstrous. Jaskier choked on the realization that this, this was how other people—people who didn't know Geralt, who didn't love him, who weren't his friends—saw him. 

He hadn't planned to cry with Geralt— _enough guilt to block out the sun,_ after all—but he could tell it would be a close thing. 

"What have we here?" Geralt murmured, barely above a whisper. "Going somewhere?"

Jaskier grabbed at his wrist and shook his head, letting his eyes grow large and imploring. 

"I'd planned to come home," Geralt continued, still in the same soft voice that made his toes curl, "have a nice meal, maybe a nap, and show you a good time."

Jaskier forgot to breathe. His hand froze where it gripped Geralt's vambrace. _He's actually going to do it,_ he thought, with febrile electricity lighting up his blood. 

"Instead you decide to tear up my...my wife's good sash and try to escape." He sighed heavily and looked away, as though fortifying himself.

 _He's not going to do it._

Jaskier tried to say "please" but all that came out was a faint vibration. Geralt looked at him again, and Jaskier's stomach promptly dropped through the floor. 

"Do you know what happens now?"

Jaskier let himself give voice to whatever raw, rough sound was currently taking over his brain. He did his best to twist and push, trying to distance himself from Geralt, but it was as futile as trying to escape the jaws of a wolf. Geralt barely moved an inch. 

All Jaskier did, in the end, was make it easier for Geralt to flip him over. This he did with very little effort, and Jaskier hit the mattress with a grunt. The hand that had been clamped on his mouth was now pressed in the center of his naked back. 

He heard a heavy unbuckling, almost clumsy with haste, and then a rapid trochee of unbuttoning. Then, a pause, heavy as a thunderhead. Jaskier could almost feel the lightning between his teeth. 

Jaskier could stop it all with a word, unravel the whole thing, make this whole world that he'd conjured up collapse like a soap bubble; the power would make him half mad if he let it. 

"Don't!" he gasped. "Please don't."

Geralt's hand gentled on his back, and Jaskier wanted to scream _don't_ actually _stop, you old fool,_ but then his legs went weak as Geralt pulled out whatever Yennefer had left inside and threw it on the bed with a sound that wasn't quite a laugh. 

Then his hips were pulled up sharply, and before he could fully draw his next breath, Geralt pushed into him in one decisive move. The breath itself ended up being rather abbreviated. The next one was punched out of him with the first meeting of their bodies.

Above him, Jaskier heard Geralt mutter the word _fuck_ in a variety of registers, before falling silent. 

Jaskier shoved backwards, bracing himself with his free hand, trying to get purchase on the bed, to throw Geralt off balance, to fight any way he could. 

“Won’t do you much good,” Geralt said, sounding almost bored. In retaliation, he pulled Jaskier's arm and pinned it against the small of his back, rendering him almost immobile. 

Jaskier’s face hit the pillow, which meant that his wail was swallowed up, and the next one, and the next one. 

“See? What’d I tell you? Though,” he said, and there was a hint of a catch in his voice, “if you’ve got that much fight in you, I’ve half a mind to set you loose and hunt you down again.” He punctuated it with a particularly ferocious thrust that Jaskier swore he could feel in his stomach. “And this time, I wouldn’t be so friendly about it.” 

The rhythm was slow and implacable, a sweet counterpoint to the bitter threat in his words.

“That what you want? You want a...reprise?”

Jaskier turned his head enough to enunciate. “Not that! I won’t fight, I swear. Just...please not that.” 

“Then shut your mouth.” 

Jaskier made a muffled sound and let his body go limp. In his mind he conjured it up: Geralt in his armor, brutal and beautiful, with every nerve and fibre of his preternatural attention trained on holding Jaskier down and fucking him, wringing pleasure out of him like a thing to be used and put down. 

Jaskier felt a slow implosion building low in his belly. The bite mark on his neck throbbed, and it made him whimper. Geralt must have sensed it—every nerve, after all—and moved faster and harder. 

“Ah, fuck,” Geralt said, almost a lament, and then Jaskier felt a series of pulses as he came. He let out a ragged breath and loosened his hold on Jaskier’s wrist, though Jaskier made no attempt to move it. 

Sweat had pooled in the dip of Jaskier’s back, along the notches of his spine, between his thighs, in the hair that curled along the nape of his neck. He couldn’t get enough air, gasping wildly though dumb tears. There was a steady ache blooming in his body, and he was so hard it hurt. 

_If the scholars of Oxenfurt saw me now..._

He didn’t finish the thought. Geralt pulled out, making him flinch, and the device Yennefer used was pushed roughly back in. The cold metal fairly burned after the heat of Geralt's body.

Geralt unfastened Jaskier's still-bound wrist from the bed. Jaskier remained obediently silent and still, just as he'd been left. He wasn’t sure his limbs would cooperate anyway if he tried to get up now. A languid heaviness was beginning to swallow him up, even as he was tormented with barbed pangs of want. 

“Up.” 

Geralt’s voice shocked Jaskier from his stupor, and a stinging smack on his ass made him scream. When Jaskier didn’t comply at once, Geralt grunted and grabbed him up, pulling him off of the bed. He braced against Geralt’s body to regain his balance, and Geralt let him, but only for a moment. In the next moment, indeed, he held Jaskier by the back of the neck and marched him to the wall. 

He felt a gallows-shadow fall across him as they went, and he shuddered. 

Jaskier stumbled forward, pinned, but Geralt’s hand on his stomach meant that the impact was softer than it might have been. 

“Turn around.” 

Jaskier closed his eyes tightly and tried not to wince. 

“ _Around_ , I said.” 

He turned around. Logically, he knew there was only an inch or so difference between them in height, but at this moment Jaskier felt as though he was facing down a great wave, high enough to drown him ten times over. 

“Stop looking at me like that,” Geralt snapped. “It won’t help you.” 

“Mm,” Jaskier managed, biting his lip. 

“Palms flat against the wall, and don’t move a muscle. Do you understand me? Nod.”

He nodded. The plaster was cool against his palms and the soft skin at the inside of his forearms; he scratched it lightly with his fingernails, then stilled. His shoulder blades were small, sharp points of pressure against the wall, and he tried to focus on the feeling. He couldn’t. 

Geralt stared into his face from close up, close enough to kiss, close enough to bite, and Jaskier dipped his chin towards his chest, trying to avoid the full brunt of his gaze.

Geralt made a sound of annoyance, and wrapped his hands around Jaskier's waist. He was still wearing his gambeson, Jaskier noted distantly, though he had no memory of the leather and plate being removed.

While Jaskier was puzzling murkily over this, Geralt sank to his knees. The desire to slide his hands into Geralt's hair was almost overwhelming. 

He kept his hands against the wall, and tried, without success, to keep his breathing even. The moment Geralt took him in his mouth, Jaskier nearly choked on his own saliva. 

There was little finesse to Geralt's technique. The fingers at Jaskier's hips were too tight, the pace was too fast, the two-day stubble on Geralt's jaw was harsh. This wasn't a reward. It was a statement of ownership.

The realization made Jaskier hurtle headlong towards the edge. He felt the first spasm, everything drawing up tight, and got ready to give into it.

But Geralt had other ideas. He pulled back abruptly, an instant before Jaskier's climax hit. Jaskier's moan turned into a sob of frustration as his hips twitched of their own accord, but found nothing. The tight feeling gave way to throbbing.

Geralt laughed, short and gruff, the same way he did when he won at Gwent, and Jaskier felt a prickle of humiliation slide down his body. 

"What's with the face?" Geralt asked, smiling darkly. "Not to your liking?"

It was a trap. No matter how he answered, Jaskier was going to regret it. He stood there, pressed to the wall, panting like a cornered deer, and waited for the wolf to snap its jaws. 

But it was the raven who got him first. 

"Having fun, dearest?"

Geralt stood, smiling softly. "Can't complain," he said. He left Jaskier where he stood and took his time kissing Yennefer. She held his face delicately in her hands and rose up on the tips of her toes, and murmured something softly in his ear. 

When they broke apart, it was as though a veil fell across them. Whatever traces of tenderness lingered in their eyes were not for Jaskier. 

"Did you appreciate my work?" asked Yennefer. 

"Perfect. Almost didn't fit."

"I thought you might appreciate a little resistance."

"Mm hm." 

"Did you get what you set out for?"

"Took some doing, but I managed it." 

As they spoke, they moved toward Jaskier with deceptively casual steps, until they stood side by side in front of him. Yennefer looked at Jaskier with arms crossed, and Geralt looked at Yennefer. Jaskier barely raised his eyes at all, feeling his heart hammering behind his ribs.

"Well then," Yennefer said, "what should we do about this one?" 

"Up to you," Geralt said easily. Too easily.

Jaskier felt a chill pierce him as they crowded in close. The chill became even more acute when he saw the knife flash in Yennefer's hand. He blanched.

"Oh, now, none of that," she chided. "Or I'll show you some of my less pleasurable skills."

It happened quickly. She passed the knife hilt-first to Geralt and Geralt pulled him away from the wall. Yennefer stepped behind him, so that he was suddenly tucked tight between them, twin walls of heat on either side. She grabbed Jaskier's wrists and held his arms to his side.

"This one's been rather a lot of fun," Yennefer said, sounding for all the world like a housewife thanking her husband for a new dress or bauble. "But I don't know if I want an extra mouth to feed."

"No?" Geralt asked, looking past Jaskier's shoulder, to where Yennefer stood. He held the knife casually, and though it was almost comically delicate in his hand, Jaskier could see that the edge was honed marvelously sharp. 

He whimpered at the sight. Geralt's eyes cut toward him for a split second, bidding him to be silent, and Jaskier swallowed thickly. 

"He does have some good features," Geralt countered, "few though they are."

"You're far too kind-hearted."

"Perhaps." He pressed the point of the knife under Jaskier's chin. "Head up." If he noticed the tears, he didn't show it.

"But maybe you're right," Yennefer admitted, almost begrudgingly. "The tongue can be of use."

Geralt raised the knife again. "So can mine."

"But what am I to use when you're not here?"

"Good point." He slipped a surreptitious thigh between Jaskier's, applying a hint of pressure that made Jaskier's breath catch. 

"At the very least," Yennefer continued, taking both of Jaskier's wrists in her left hand, "you should take a trophy." Her right hand slid slowly down, coming to rest at the narrowest point of his back. 

Geralt's thigh pressed a little more insistently. Jaskier's head filled with a sound akin to the roaring of a waterfall. 

"Hmm." Geralt looked thoughtful. "Guess you're right." He clapped his hand across Jaskier's mouth.

Jaskier made a noise, or thought he did, and shook his head, but they ignored it. He felt the very edge of the knife trail down the hollow of his throat, across his chest, and the downward slope of his belly. Faint enough that it would hardly leave a mark. No one but Geralt could have done it.

Behind him, Yennefer caressed the soft skin between his thighs, and then did some kind of movement with the instrument inside of him that made his knees shake.

The world shrunk down until it contained nothing but the sound of their voices, the press of their bodies, their hands, the blade. 

When, at last, Jaskier felt the knife come to a stop at the hollow of his hip, curved along the iliac furrow, he was leaning fully against Yennefer, his chest heaving and his eyes glazed. The point dragged ever-so-slightly, more a suggestion of pain than anything, and Jaskier was done for. 

He moaned against Geralt's palm and came, feeling it dragged out of him by the roots. He was almost certainly going to die, and he didn't even care.

It so happened that he lived, though it took him a few minutes to realize it. When he finally blinked the haze from his eyes, Geralt's hands were both on his shoulders, and Yennefer clasped him by the waist, the two of them holding him upright.

Geralt's face was gentle and serious. "Can you walk?"

Jaskier didn't trust his voice, and so he nodded. His neck felt like it belonged to someone else.

"Hmm, maybe not." Geralt stooped and gathered him up. 

In his dazed state, it took Jaskier a little while to notice he was in the bedroom still, and he blinked slowly, trying to work out what was coming next. He'd agreed to three days, after all, and though time had become indistinct and uncertain, he was fairly sure he had another day to go.

"Here we are," Geralt said, setting him down on his feet. "Get, um...can you get in?" The look in his eyes was hard to decipher, and Jaskier was too tired to try. 

"I'd do it myself," Geralt continued, sounding apologetic, "but my back's still fucked up from that drowner. Can't bend that way."

That brought him back into himself a little. Jaskier remembered the ugly series of bruises along the left side of Geralt's back. They'd started to turn from blue-black to a mix of slickly green and yellow when Jaskier saw them. 

But why was he telling him this? Another test? 

"Come on. In." 

Jaskier felt a wash of relief at being given an order. He looked down and saw the copper tub from the other day. This again. Well, maybe Geralt wanted to see it, maybe wring a few more tears out of him. He was so tired, though, he wasn't sure how many he could muster. 

"Easy. There, good."

The praise was unexpected. 

"Wh—" Jaskier began, before remembering, and snapping his mouth shut.

"We're done with that," Geralt said, lugging over one of the great pitchers of water. He set it down, grimacing a little. "But there's still a few things I need you to do."

"Alright."

The "few things" included a bath, during which he fell asleep while his hair was being washed, drinking a pint of a salty sweet concoction that Yennefer had made, and eating an entire game hen, while Geralt stared at him like he was liable to collapse at any moment. 

By the end, Jaskier could barely keep his eyes open, and Yennefer half-dragged him to the bed. It was strange to slide into it clothed; strange to be wearing anything at all, really. He plucked at the shirt—the one he'd removed at the very beginning—and then took it off. The sheets were cool and soft against his skin, and he sighed. 

"Geralt, come to bed," Yennefer said. 

"No room." 

Jaskier cracked open an eye to look at him. "Just get in, man."

Geralt's eyes widened in surprise, but he couldn't seem to come up with an answer. 

"You heard him," Yennefer said, smiling. "I'm afraid you've no choice."

Geralt seemed to droop a little, and at last shed the gambeson and leathers. His shape was familiar and comforting as Jaskier watched his approach. 

"All of it," Yennefer said, pulling him up short. "Much better. Come here, between us."

"Are you..."

"Quite sure, yes. Both of us. We're tired, Geralt. In!"

The bed complained as Geralt climbed in. His scars, save for one or two of the most livid ones, were invisible in the faint light. There was a great deal of frantic movement as they resettled, and then quiet.

"So," Geralt said, after a while. "I...hope you...enjoyed yourself." He was laying very carefully, as though surrounded by broken glass on either side.

Jaskier opened his eyes as the realization struck. _He's worried._

He hadn't yet come back into himself enough for all the words he longed to say, and so contented himself with simply rolling over and planting himself on top of Geralt's chest. "Brilliant. Everything. Just perfect." His words slurred a little. 

Geralt relaxed fractionally underneath him. "Really? I'm glad." 

"Actually, move over, I want to lie next to Yennefer." 

At that, Yennefer chuckled.

"But..."

"I've just been ravished and abused for two solid days." 

Geralt swallowed loudly in the dark. "I know..."

"And I'd like to say thank you properly, so move." 

Soon he was between them again, kissing the back of Yennefer's neck, then turning to Geralt. It wasn't the jagged pleasure of earlier, but something equally as sweet. 

He was bone tired, and yet Jaskier wanted to stay awake as long as he could. "You..." he murmured, fighting back a yawn. "You didn't break character once."

"Guess not."

"So good. And Yennefer, you're... I see why you're so..."

"Renowned?" she asked, sounding wry.

"Important to him," he managed, and then sleep took him and he knew nothing else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content in this chapter:
> 
> "noncon" fingering  
> rape fantasy roleplay  
> discussions of maiming


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day three!

When he woke again, he felt a peculiar euphoria envelope him, followed almost immediately by an immense sadness. He sprawled in the middle of the bed trying to untangle himself from himself as the two feelings vied for his attention.

Jaskier was alone. The curtain was open, letting in late morning sun, and he walked to it, blinking and stumbling like a foal. He didn't immediately recognize where they were, but it hardly seemed like ghoul hunting grounds. The thought made him laugh to himself.

He heard quiet voices from the other room. A thin filament of fear wound through him momentarily, before dissolving. There was no point in worrying about facing them, and so he straightened his spine and went to greet them.

Geralt, with his inhuman hearing, was looking over his shoulder as Jaskier walked in. His expression was impossible to read. Yennefer turned more slowly to face him, and her lips were bitten and red.

Jaskier slowed, then stopped, feeling dreadfully close to awkwardness. But then Yennefer smiled at him, her violet eyes bright.

"Good morning," Jaskier said carefully. He cleared his throat. "It's day three."

"So it is," Geralt agreed, and Jaskier felt a small thrill.

"Would you like to..." He held out his wrists hopefully.

Geralt's lips twitched, but he shook his head. "Got other plans for you."

He gulped. "Oh?"

"Have a seat." Yennefer said, pointing to the chair she'd used the other night, at the head of the table. "And close your eyes."

Out of every order he'd been given over the last few days, this was perhaps the most difficult to follow. Jaskier jumped when he felt a hand—Geralt's, by the size and weight of it—fall across his eyes.

"I wasn't..."

Geralt did laugh this time. "Bullshit."

"Alright," Yennefer said. "Go ahead."

Geralt took his hand away, and Jaskier opened his eyes in a kind of hopeful agony.

The table was heaped with flowers, bright and fragrant. On either side were dishes of food and carafes of wine, and in the very center...

"Is that a cake?"

"The bottom is rosewater and saffron. The top is lemon. Had to clear the cellar of a vengeful ghost before he'd agree to make it at short notice."

"Those are two favorites. How did you..."

But of course Geralt knew. Geralt was his dearest friend, someone who loved him and was loved by him, and he knew all there was to know.

"What? Why are you crying again? Don't you like it?"

"You fool, I love it." And he leapt up, grabbed Geralt by the shoulders, and kissed him.

"Just as I told you," Yennefer said.

"These flowers," Jaskier said, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. "I've never seen their like."

"I grew them myself."

"You brought all these from _Vengerberg_?"

He didn't wait for her answer, but threw himself down to clasp her knees and kiss the hem of her dress. "Oh, you're amazing. Marvelous creature."

"Dramatic as ever," she replied, but when he looked up, she was blushing.

"Jaskier," she said, "I know it's your birthday, but if we don't eat soon, I'm afraid I can't be held responsible for my actions."

Jaskier got up, a touch clumsily. "Right, of course." He kissed her, likewise, full on the mouth. "Let's begin."  
____

After the table was cleared and the crumbs swept away, after the last drop of wine was drained and the last morsel eaten, after the laughing and the singing (slightly hoarse, slightly off key) had finished, a comfortable quiet fell on the cabin.

Yennefer retired to bed first, leaving Jaskier and Geralt to yawn into the dregs of their cups and lean drowsily against each other on the rug.

"Geralt," Jaskier said, bleary and content, as he set aside his lute, "I...have so many songs to write about this."

"I thought that might be the case." He slumped over, and when Jaskier pulled him to his lap, he went easily. "Torrid tales of, fuck, I don't know, the witcher's cruelty and the sorceress' lust? The public will eat it up."

"Mm, there's some of that, to be sure. Though I was thinking, you know, a little artistic license. A highwayman and his wife, perhaps. Or a succubus. And of course, my daring escape!"

"Of course."

He ran his fingers through Geralt's hair, in which Yennefer had wound a single red poppy, and watched the way his eyelids grew heavy. "And I'm sure audiences will eat it all up. But mostly, I meant the exquisiteness and beauty of love."

Geralt didn't open his eyes. "You're full of shit."

"Oh, now _that_ is cruel." He slapped Geralt lightly on the chest, earning a slow smile. "It was perfect. I'd change nothing. Not one thing. And you know why?"

Geralt's eyebrows raised in question.

"Because it's you. You and Yennefer. I'm...I should be absolutely incandescent with rage if I'm honest."

"That doesn't sound very exquisite."

"I've been ruined for anyone else, you ass. You and your wife have completely broken me open and rearranged everything."

Geralt opened his eyes. He looked strangely young, staring up at Jaskier this way. Jaskier wondered what color his hair might have been, before the Trials.

"No more sleeping around, hm?"

Jaskier scoffed. "I can't promise that. Can you?"

"Hm."

"But I'll follow you—both of you—for the rest of my life, if you'll let me."

"You've already followed me for years."

"Exactly."

Geralt took that in, looking into some distant place only he could see.

"I think I'd like that," he said at last.

"And Yennefer?"

"I don't presume to speak for her. But why don't you go and find out for yourself? She's only in the next room, after all."

"Will you join me?"

"Of course, I'll follow you as long as you'll let me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content in this chapter:
> 
> Just food and fluff, I'm afraid. ;)
> 
> Thanks so much for coming along on this little jaunt. I hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks very much to BurningTea for her keen-eyed beta reading and encouragement. :D


End file.
